Chapter one- nobody said it was easy

Blaine walks through the familiar stone pathways of Dalton's gardens, his feet tracing a well-worn path though he isn't thinking—

He isn't thinking anything, except: "You're coming home, Blaine." And Kurt. And something else fluttering in the back of his mind, a hand just out of his reach, and he thinks it's not important so he ignores it and focuses on two words: home and Kurt.

There're almost the same, to his mind. He hasn't been able to think of much else since the phone call from his dad's unfamiliar, rusty voice. He's finally going back. He's going back. He's going home. He's going to Kurt. Kurt who he hasn't seen for four achingly unprecedented years of hatred and being kicked around and bullied at Dalton, which was supposed to be a "safe environment" but made the blackness start in the first place.

At least, he thinks that's how the blackness started. He can't be sure how it ever came about, but it did start halfway through his first year at Dalton and progressed through the years then until it got so bad that one day—the hand. The hand is just out of reach. But don't reach for it, Blaine. Don't reach for it. It won't help you. Just focus on going back. Go back to the start.

It will be okay.

Or that's what Blaine tells himself. And he wills it to be true. Because if it isn't okay, then the blackness will get worse and it will scare Blaine and others and he doesn't care if it scares him—"You're still my prince"—but the others, the others, what will they think? He can't tell them about the blackness. Hovering hovering hovering over his head, in the corners of his eyes where tears used to form, waiting—for what?

Blaine laughs. It is a wild sound, crazy and free, and—

There is a dead bird in the garden pathway.

But now it is gone.

So Blaine doesn't, Blaine doesn't know what to do. Should he tell about the bird? Does it come with the blackness? Why a bird? It was black, black like a shadow, maybe it was just a bird passing overhead, in the forest, the forest, no—

He's in a garden.

He knows this place. It's his happy place at Dalton. No one goes into the garden because it's for sissies but Blaine isn't a sissy—"You're very brave"—he just goes here to escape. Escape like that bird did. That black bird. But it couldn't have been a shadow—it's night time.

Blaine doesn't know what to do, but that's a feeling with which he's familiar enough.

So he sits down on the big stone in the garden and rocks it back and forth but it doesn't really rock, it's a rock that doesn't rock, ha, no, it's just a stone. A stone. Not a swing, and tears, and blackness. A stone.

"Blaine is insane!"

"He got sent home early! No one gets sent home early!"

"Yeah, that's 'cause Blaine is no one!"

Ha ha ha ha ha.

Blaine rocks himself back and forth like he's on a swing and focuses on nothing at all and the blackness sets itself with a heavy sigh around the corners of his vision and he looks at it carefully and doesn't see anything at all, no-thing no-one, and he wants to die.

But he can't die. He can't.

He's going home.

*

Blaine is cold all the time now, so when he gets into his dad's car with his teeth chattering, he asks for a blanket.

"Not now, Blaine."

"Why the hell does he want a blanket?"

Vaguely Blaine recalls a movie with a princess, but, more importantly, a prince. A brown-haired prince who kisses his knuckles and talks wisely and comforts him and helps him—where did he go?

Dalton.

Blaine went to Dalton for four years.

Then he got kicked out.

So he's going to McKinley High this year.

He's going to see Kurt.

Blaine wonders: will Kurt see him? And the blackness?

*

"Where is Kurt?"

He's been asking this for the past hour. In a question, in a statement, quietly, loudly, emphasize put on different words—and still no answer. He's not even sure that his parents can hear him. They're in the room a few doors down from Blaine's, talking to a professional-looking sleazeball-type guy. Blaine thinks he recognizes the brand of sleazeball he is, and also thinks, Kurt? Except Kurt is not a sleazeball. Kurt is beautiful and kind and he misses Kurt, so much, where—

"Where is Kurt?"

He says it very loudly, he is sure of that, but it is only after he listens for the echo of the words in his empty room that he realizes he only said it in his head.

"I miss Kurt," he says, throat working harshly against the words. He prevails, though—they hang in the air and Blaine traces their shape with a lazy finger. I- m- i- s- s- K- —

"Blaine, what are you doing?" His hand drops to his side halfway through the u, limp on the bed.

"I don't know."

"When did you get your voice back?" His mother's small stature is sure and proud in the doorframe. She does not look sad, though emotion is hard to discern on her hard, shadow-crossed features.

"I don't know."

"Is that all you can say?" A little scoff, meant to be teasing, coming out worried. Blaine winces. She's not sad. She's worried. Worried for Blaine. She shouldn't be worried.

"Don't worry," he says. The words stick and catch in his dry throat. Water—he wants water—where is Kurt?

"Kurt? Your silly childhood friend?" His mother looks amused. "Why do you care where he is?"

He didn't say 'don't worry' out loud. He said 'where is Kurt?'

Shit.

"Water," he rasps, the word falling to the floor the moment it leaves his poisoned mouth. "I want water please."

"I'm not your servant, Blaine," his mother says sternly, then tromps off in her three-inch heels to retrieve a glass of water from the kitchen. She's predictable. Blaine hates that he knows how to use it against her.

But he has to—doesn't he?

His father walks in unannounced. "Feeling better, Blaine?"

"I guess." Blaine is not in the mood to talk right now. He would like to be left alone, preferably forever. His dad is giving him a falsely encouraging smile, four years away from home and he gets "What are you doing?" and "Feeling better?"

It's fine with Blaine. As far as he's concerned, he deserves it.

"Are you gonna be okay if I leave you here?" his father says cautiously. Blaine knows this game, the one he always plays. Caution because he doesn't want to seem overbearing. And the question, concerned all the same, with a disguised neutral tone, still brims with hidden emotion.

He knows it, he's always played along, but today he doesn't want to. "I guess."

"Is that all you can say?" His dad gives a forced laugh. Blaine closes his eyes.

"I'm tired. Can I sleep for a little bit?"

"You've been out for three hours, Blaine. How on earth are you still tired?"

Blaine shrugs. His limbs are growing heavier by the second. He just wants some rest, that's all. Is that too much to ask?

The blackness appears, sudden and sharp, around his vision.

You whiny bastard.

Blaine jolts upwards. His father has left the room. His mother's hand is reaching around the mostly-closed door to put a glass of water on his nightstand. It retreats and her high heels click away, down the hall, down the stairs. Blaine counts her steps until he can't hear them anymore. He's slumped backwards on the bed again.

Where is Kurt?

Kurt's gone. Kurt doesn't care about you, you insolent, abusive brat. Kurt hates you. Kurt hates you. Kurt hates you. Kurt hates you.

The words should be like blows in his side, each one striking in a painfully accurate tune. And yet, Blaine can't muster the power to feel emotions, much less physical harm.

If only that had happened at Dalton, when Sebastian—

Who the hell is Sebastian?

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

Have you forgotten?

I guess. I guess. I guess.

Blaine sinks further and further into his pillow, facedown breathing in breathing out the cloth's warm smell of laundry detergent and hints of cologne.

Maybe if he sinks far enough, he'll suffocate.

The blackness closes around his vision and a thought alights in his mind—there's no place like home—and then the blackness is complete and he's asleep and it's fine.

*

The sleazeball comes back the next day in a different horribly clashing suit and asks lots of questions to which Blaine mumbles incoherent answers. He is still facedown in his bed and fully dressed in his clothes from last night—the Dalton blazer hangs from a knob on his closet. He can't look at it because it somehow makes him nauseous and feeling like he's broken and beat up and he's on his deathbed and he's gonna die.

Is he gonna die?

Maybe.

Where is Kurt?

He wants to run and find Kurt but he can't because he is glued to his bed and the sleazeball asks migraine-inducing questions that make his bones ache and make him not want to move.

—stupid fucking bastard—

The sleazeball finally leaves, looking at Blaine condescendingly as he goes, and Blaine can rest in peace.

Ha.

Rest in peace, Blaine.

—R. I. P.—